


Getting to Be A Habit

by festeringfae



Category: Mad Men
Genre: Alcohol, Canon Compliant, Canon Gay Character, M/M, Romance, Second Chances, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-13
Updated: 2016-03-06
Packaged: 2018-05-20 06:52:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5995717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/festeringfae/pseuds/festeringfae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Time had an odd way of stealing some things and preserving others; Salvatore wasn’t sure he had remembered Elliot’s eyes as much as the way they lit up with possibility.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Set in mid-to-late February of 1964 (so, between season 3 and season 4). 
> 
> 2\. Matthew Weiner is a top-tier piece of shit for a wide variety of reasons, and as a woman, a gay person, and a writer, I would just like to update these notes to add: Matthew Weiner can fuck right off with profiting off the hard work of women and gay men.

The bar at the Roosevelt Hotel was largely out of Sal’s price range nowadays. Prospects weren’t entirely daunting; better to be fired without explanation by an agency with clout and prestige than by a mom-and-pop operation. Salvatore had taken meetings.  He had watched strangers in suits listen to him with adopted intensity, brows furrowed as they listened. In the earlier months, he’d made earnest, enigmatic pitches about his own marketability—he spoke with his hands, his voice energetic, like a showman eager to reel in his audience. Now, it was difficult to do anything but nod politely as they poked at the holes in the story he told on paper. Sometimes, he was brazen enough to order a second appetizer when he sensed they were about to bolt. It saved him some money in the short term.

Not that he was starving; Kitty had gotten a job, which wouldn’t have been half so humiliating if she wasn’t so kind about it. He kept the house spotless for her while she was gone all day,; this only seemed to make her sadder.  She’d grown callouses long ago, he knew, but he offered her foot rubs all the same.  These were accepted, but with a small smile a bit too tight on her cheek, and eyes that seemed to quiver behind their warmth.  Her toes never relaxed as he rubbed them. She was bright and beatific as ever, but with a cautious underpinning.  She looked at him the way his mother had looked at his drunk uncles whenever they accepted The Blood of Christ—with an anxiety that would have been blasphemous to speak aloud.

He suspected the word “divorce” would also be blasphemous to her, otherwise he would have offered.

The ad business had taught him that people spent money to feel better; being aware didn’t make it any less the truth. For Kitty’s birthday, he’d called her mother and bought them both a spa treatment. They didn’t really have the money—and if they did, it was Kitty’s money—but he’d thought the excuse for some time away from him would be a present enough. There was hurt in her eyes, though, when he told it was to be a “girl’s only” weekend.  No matter what he did, he could never truly please her.  He had never wanted to make her feel rejected.

That thought was what kept him from the park tonight. It didn’t always work—in fact, sometimes the guilt of it made him so angry it pushed him there. But tonight felt different. He felt trapped by the reality of his life. He wanted fantasy, and a clean-lit room, where he still wore a suit and wouldn’t have to worry about subtle stains of dirt. He’d spent too much money the day before, which made spending more seem irrelevant. So he wound up in the lounge of the Roosevelt. Sal didn’t believe in wallowing, but only because he hadn’t had much opportunity to do so before. Maybe, he rationalized, that might be a better gift to Kitty. It could be rejuvenating, in a way.

So there he was, presently nursing regret and his third whiskey. It was pathetic, coming here.  Stewing in what he’d thrown away. The room, still fresh from its renovations, looked exactly the same. It was like stepping back in time. Probably a good ad in that, Sal thought bitterly, and took another sip of his drink.

“Salvatore?”

Whiskey went up his nose. It burned horrendously, and as he started to cough he felt a hand thumping him on the back. Somewhere in between worrying about his breath and worrying about whether he’d been compromised in some way, it occurred to him that the pressure on his back and the pain he was in ought to mean that this was not some alcohol-fueled dream. Perhaps—most likely—with the familiar surroundings, he’d misheard one voice for another.

He turned around.

It was him.

“Sorry,” Elliot Lawrence said, standing above him, wearing the exact same pink tie and gray suit he had three years ago. “I um, didn’t mean to startle you.” He seemed to remember his hand, still on Sal’s back, and quickly withdrew it.  “I’m surprised to see you here.”

Salvatore was able to pass his speechlessness off as residual difficulty breathing. Elliot signaled the bartender for a glass of water. “Are you alright?”

Sal nodded, taking a gulp from the glass. He was still not entirely convinced that this was actually happening, but mentioning that in either scenario did not seem prudent.  Bumbling around for anything to say, he blurted out, “Why are you surprised to see me here?”

“Well—“ Elliot, his mouth opening and closing by turns, didn’t seem to notice how absurd Salvatore’s question was. “I… didn’t want to ask, of course, but-- when I didn’t see you at the meeting, I… assumed you didn’t carry over with McCann.”

Fortunately, Sal hadn’t taken another sip of water yet. “I didn’t know we’d gone over to McCann,” he said.  He snorted, and picked up his whiskey. “Bet Don _loved_ that.”

Elliot raised an eyebrow, tilting his head. “Apparently not,” he said slowly. “He’s not at the company anymore. “

Sal stared at him.

“Started his own enterprise—tried to poach our account, actually, but of course it was too much of a financial risk for us.” Elliot looked at him, brow furrowed. “You really didn’t know?”

The heat rose in Sal’s face. He fiddled with the ice in his drink. “I’m no longer privy to Don Draper’s… _antics_ , I’m afraid.” He managed to say with a wry smile, but he couldn’t mask the entirety of his bitterness, and Elliot reddened.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have bothered you,” he said, all in a rush. “I beg your pardon, I was just saw you across the room and—and I don’t know, but I shouldn’t have disturbed you, I’ll go—“

“No!”

Elliot gave a little jump.

Embarrassed, Sal lowered his voice. “No,” he said again. “ Please, I apologize. It—hasn’t been a very good year, I’m afraid I’ve lost my manners. Let me make it up to you, I-- I’ll buy you a drink.”

Elliot looked at him. “You don’t have to do that, you know,” he said softly.

Something warm settled down in Sal’s chest. “I know,” Salvatore said. He patted the stool next to him, still holding Elliot’s gaze. “I want to.”

A tiny smile flicked across Elliot’s face. He glanced briefly at the bar—Sal hadn’t even considered if the bartender was nearby, he realized in a bolt of panic—and then slid in beside him.  “Alright then,” he said.

“Thank you.”

Elliot’s smile widened. “It’s my pleasure.”

Sal hadn’t  thought how much money he’d already spent when he’d made the offer, and now, two and a half whiskeys in, his anxiety about the situation didn’t match what he knew it would sober. It seemed very unlikely that anything as real as running out of money could happen under the spell of opportunity brought back from the dead.

(The threat of Discovery, and all its hideous implications, was so terrifying and so constant that without a corporeal form it always seemed unreal, and therefore still lurked in the bottom of his stomach.)

But the bartender wasn’t paying them any mind, whether to spy or to collect cash. “Well,” Elliot said, still smiling, after his third failed attempt to get any service. “At least I have plenty of time to figure out what I want. What are you having?”

“Oh, I better not, I’m on my third,” Sal said, laughing a little. His nerves were distant, but close enough.

Elliot’s eyes twinkled. “What was that drink you had, last time?” Sal’s heart fluttered a little. He had dwelt on that night, too. He must have. “After dinner? It was Italian.”

Sal smiled. “Oh, that narrows it down.”

Elliot chuckled in return. “Something about flies?”  he guessed.

_Ah_. “Sambuca _con la mosca._ ”  Though thankfully Elliot couldn’t tell, Sal noticed his pronunciation had been a bit slurred. He inched his whiskey glass away, not wanting to break eye contact. It was difficult to embrace the anxiety of seeming sloppy, when Elliot was—to Sal’s utter delight—unmistakably making the same face the secretaries had when he’d spoken Italian in front of them to feign flirtation. The gratification when someone he actually _wanted_ reacted that way…God. Hidden beneath the table, Salvatore had to cross his legs. At least the whiskey hadn’t affected _that._

Although…Jesus, was he actually contemplating that? He supposed he must be, or what else had he flagged Elliot back for? Companionship was lovely, and he hadn’t felt it in so long. It’s what he dreamed of when he had…other things. But he wanted companionship _with_ the other things. He hadn’t ever—God, it was lovely to just _watch_ him while he _talked,_ with such bright eyes and a beatific beat in his tone.

“I always feel like I should try something  I wouldn’t usually when I’m in New York,” Elliot was saying. The little tinge of enthusiasm, the country boy let loose in the city (was he from the country? he couldn’t remember where Belle Jolie’s offices were) still blossomed across his features, the way Sal had remembered from last time. Time had an odd way of stealing some things and preserving others; Salvatore wasn’t sure he had remembered Elliot’s eyes as much as the way they lit up with possibility.

“Salvatore?”

He blinked. “Oh,” he said. Elliot’s head was tilted, and the corners of his mouth twitched in apparent—thank God—amusement. “I’m sorry, I—“ there were still people around, a good ten or twelve feet away, but undeniably present. The whiskey, and something else—more else than alcohol—wanted him to say, _I just can’t believe you’re here_ or _I’m so happy you’re here_ or—God— _you just look so beautiful_. But he couldn’t.

(And even in an empty room, he doubted he could make himself admit the last.)

Instead, he heard himself say with surprising ease, “I’m sorry, I just got distracted—do you realize that’s the suit you were wearing the last time you were here?”

Elliot laughed, tucking his chin to look down at himself. “This?” He shook his head. “Doesn’t surprise me. I’ve only got one or two I can iron myself without making a mess of it.”

Salvatore joined in the laughter. “That _doesn’t_ explain why your tie’s the same,” he said slyly.

Lifting an eyebrow, Elliot propped his chin on one of his hands. “You really remember all that, huh?”

In lieu of an answer, Sal took a sip from his water glass.

Elliot chuckled. Previously, Salvatore had been unaware that it was possible to be pleased and embarrassed at the same time.

“Better save some for the fish, that might be the only other drink we see all night,” Elliot said, gaze scanning the wide hotel bar again.

“Probably I raised too much of a fuss with the choking. Doesn’t want to be around if some slob at the bar dies on him.”

Snorting, Elliot turned on his stool. “What do you say we put his mind at ease and find a table? Make a waiter deal with us instead.”

Said easily, and clearly meant as a quip, the remark reminded Sal that they were essentially a problem that could be ‘dealt with.’ The thought made his anxiety spike.

He also absolutely could not afford a meal.

“Oh, I don’t know,” he lied with the shrug of one shoulder. “I’m not especially hungry.”

Elliot’s smile remained intact, but it solidified into something firm. “Well, you ought to have some _antipasto_ , at least.” His accent was terrible, the attempt too charming for words.  “Anyway, it’s the least I can do, what with our misunderstanding.”

Sal’s heart skipped a beat. “What?”

Elliot waved a hand. “Copyright is a tricky business; it would make sense that an artist such as yourself would want reassurance that his designs are still being properly attributed to him after having left the agency,” he said. “It’s only proper that Belle Jolie compensate us for our business dinner while I attempt to assuage your fears.”

And then he _winked!_

Salvatore reminded himself that he was cut _off_ from the whiskey.  “Alright,” he said managed to say lightly, “But only if you spare me from whatever ad you’ve been brought into town to approve as a successor to mine.”

Chuckling, Elliot said, “Actually, I’m only in town to discuss a possible expansion into other cosmetics: eyeshadow, mascara. Targeting teenagers. The lipstick ads aren’t up for discussion.”

The way he said it, it was easy to think some of Sal’s art might still be in circulation. Maybe that’s all this whole night was, Salvatore thought, as they moved to a table and Elliot flagged down a waiter. Suspending disbelief. Hoping, pretending, whichever.  Trying to will an improbable outcome. Cinderella might have made it to the ball, but what people wanted was to live happily ever after. Sal had drawn enough glass slippers in his career to know no one cared about two shoes sneaking into a palace; they wanted one, the next morning. They wanted to step into a brighter future, even as they stood in rags. Sal had told himself earlier what he wanted was a fantasy, but now—with a man, willing, solid, right in front of him—he had to admit what he wanted was something real.

He hated himself for it.

“Lobster bisque alright with you?” Elliot asked.

“What? Oh, yes, thank you.”

Elliot nodded and thanked the server, who bowed and left. “You know, it’s funny,” Elliot mused, leaning a hand on his cheek. “Hugh pays me to come in and negotiate with these ad men, suss out what their angle is. But I haven’t a clue what you’re thinking right now.”

_I’m not an ad man anymore._ “I’m thinking… “ Sal took a deep breath. “I’m thinking that... someone told me, once, that the views here were stunning, but I never got to see them. They said you could see the park from here, but I…I’ve been to the park, and it’s dirty. And cold. I think it’d be nice to be above it, for once, and… be warm.”

Beneath the table, Salvatore felt the sole of Elliot’s shoe brushing against his own, just barely, just at the very tip. “Are you still afraid of heights?”

It was difficult to breathe, looking into Elliot’s eyes, but he wouldn’t let himself look away. “Yes,” he said, faintly. “I’ll always be afraid of heights.  But I’ve…stood on some ledges since I first met you. Fell off one once, actually. I’m always going to be afraid, but tonight…” He squared his shoulders. “Tonight, I feel like I could climb a mountain.”

A flush came over Elliot’s cheeks; when he swallowed, Sal could see his Adam’s apple quivering. “My room’s a good twelve flights up,” Elliot said. “Nothing says we have to take the elevator. But its…” he fumbled, but Sal didn’t feel any anxiety; he could tell Elliot was looking for words that he could say, not a rejection. Rejection seemed as impossible as the night itself.

“You can climb the stairs at your own pace,” Elliot said finally.

Sal opened his mouth to speak, but then the waiter returned with Elliot’s drink and another water glass. Both men thanked him. Elliot asked Sal, “Do you still want soup?”

Besides the fact that two men abandoning untouched food to go upstairs together would look too suspicious for even his whiskey-addled brain to ignore, “I haven’t eaten much today,” Sal admitted.

Elliot smiled. “Me either.” He nodded at the waiter, who bowed and left.

Sal snorted.  “You’re very kind, but I doubt McCann let you go hungry.”

“ _You_ obviously haven’t tasted the sandwiches at McCann,” Elliot said, eyes twinkling. “I suspect the airline food came from a higher quality caterer.”

“Alright, alright,” Sal held up both his hands. “I give.  Fatten me up all you like. That Sambuca’s turning you into a real Italian.”

Laughing, Elliot picked up his glass. “I doubt that.” He swirled his glass. “I’m not even sure how I managed to drink this last time—I’m afraid I’ll choke.”

Sal smiled. “You had a lot of bravado.”

Elliot lowered his head a little, corners of his mouth upturned. “That and four drinks.”

“Any real Italian gets his bravado from four drinks,” Sal said bracingly. He lowered his voice conspiratorially. “I won’t tell, though, if you swat your flies.”

“I think with that empty stomach, you must be about four drinks in bravado yourself.”

“Five.” This was bolder than he’d even intended. Sal managed to laugh at himself, then quickly chugged some water down. “You ought to give me the espresso beans if you don’t want them, clearly I could do with some coffee.”

“That can always be arranged,” Elliot said, kindly. He looked down at his glass with uncertainty. “I think I will pick them out, though, if that’s really alright.”

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

“I don’t know,” Elliot said, reaching to unfurl his napkin and then draping it over his fingers. “Is it unlucky?”

“Maybe.” Sal chuckled. “More blasphemous, I’d say.”

“Oh?”

Salvatore gestured for the glass. Elliot slid it to him by gently pressing against the stem, and withdrew his hand a little quicker than necessary. For a moment Sal felt a tug of disappointment, then remembered that he had…well…essentially run for the hills a few moments after Elliot had cupped his hand last time.

Instead of his own napkin, Sal reached across the table and plucked Elliot’s from between his fingers. Their skin barely brushed, but the light tingle of contact was enough that Sal heard Elliot’s breath catch. Sal swallowed. He could feel his own pulse beat in his wrist.

“The espresso beans,” he said, a ripple in his calm voice, “symbolize health, wealth, and happiness. But they can also represent the Holy Trinity. _In Nomine Patris_ —“ he plucked one bean from the glass, “ _et Fillie,_ ” he removed another, “ _et Spiritus Sancti._ ” He had to fish around a moment before managing to grasp the Holy Spirit.

The weight of the three was as light yet tangible as Elliot’s touch. Sal was speaking flippantly, showing off, but something about the weight of all three in his hand…he thought of Kitty for a moment.

_The problems of three people don’t amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world._ Sal scoffed at himself. Elliot raised an eyebrow, but the server had come back with a bread basket before he could say anything.  Probably, Sal should have asked for his napkin to be cleared, but instinctively he’d hidden the beans under the table. What a ridiculous impulse—to fear being made ashamed of playing with his food, when he was on the cusp of adultery. Almost as ridiculous as comparing himself to Cinderella—clearly, he was more Jack and the Beanstalk. Hell, that did fit: he was trying to climb up and take something he hadn’t any right to.

He set the beans down on the table. “I don’t suppose it’ll hurt you if you’re not Catholic,” Salvatore said, and tried to smile.

Elliot studied his expression; Sal wasn’t quite sure what he was thinking, or what his own face gave away. Also, though emotionally invested, the smell of the bread was making it difficult to concentrate. His stomach, which had been resigned to a dull ache, had suddenly remembered it had been empty since the previous evening.

“I do hate the waste, though,” Elliot said finally. “You can drink them, if would—after you’ve eaten something, of course.”

Salvatore smiled. “Generally I eat them, actually—cuts the sweetness of the alcohol.”

“Really?”

Sal nodded. “May I?”

This time when Elliot passed the glass, his hand cupped Sal’s own, and then retreated slowly, fingers caressing the back of Sal’s knuckles down to his fingertips. Sal felt a flush creep up his cheek. Before he brought the glass to his lips, he reached for a slice of bread from the basket. One sip or so without it probably wouldn’t have done him much more harm, but he wasn’t entirely confident in his ability to pick up the drink without sloshing; his hands, he found, were shaking.

It took an effort not to scarf the whole slice in one go-- and he probably only succeeded thanks to the fear of looking slovenly.  

When Sal had finished a few slices, he took the napkin out of his lap and carefully dropped the beans back in, one by one. It was silly, but he did feel a relief putting them back where they belonged. _In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit._ He sipped the glass, letting the arsine flavor rest on his tongue. It was so odd to have it _before_ a meal, but Salvatore supposed he had been too distracted or drunk to mention that at the pertinent time. It wasn’t like this was a situation where one should stand on ceremony, anyway. Savoring the sweetness a moment, he swirled the glass again and took a bite out of a bean, the crunch satisfying beneath his teeth.

“You want to try one?” Sal offered.

Elliot smiled. “Why not?”

He accepted the glass back—Sal grinned a little, before he gave it to him, knowing they’d have to brush against each other again. That was foolish, of course, and distracted him from actually making any sort of gesture of affection when they touched, but…

He looked at Elliot, who didn’t seem to have taken any kind of offense. Elliot was eyeing the glass as he swished it, squinting a bit. It looked a bit like he was trying to intimidate it into not choking him, and if Salvatore wasn’t concerned about his companion losing his nerve he would have laughed aloud.

Finally, Elliot brought the glass to his lips and tipped it ever-so-slightly back. His eyes widened when one of the beans finally inched into his mouth, but he bit into it gamely. “Oh, there’s a bit of a kick to that,” he said, dabbing at his lip with the back of his hand.

Sal passed him his napkin. The cloth covered both their fingers as he pressed his hand into his. Touch forward, pull back. It was like a dance.

“Thank you.” Elliot wiped his face properly, looking a tad embarrassed.  “You want the last one, or should I?”

“If you’d be so kind.”

If this was a dance, Sal thought he might be finding his rhythm—he didn’t feel skittish reaching for the glass this time.  Reach, brush, warmth, pull back. Too little, and just enough. Electricity. He wondered if this was what it was like, when you were young—hiding in the back of a car on school night, the thrill mingling with the worry that your parents might catch you.

A swallow of sweetness followed by a bite of bitterness—seemed appropriate, for something meant to represent happiness. He liked the taste anyhow.


	2. Chapter 2

Lobster bisque ended up being an ideal meal. The soup was light enough that it didn't aggravate Sal’s extremely empty stomach, while the lobster was filling and provided protein that was much needed. Slowly, Sal felt more invigorated. Over the course of the meal, he became more and more aware that this was actually happening. By dessert (Elliot had insisted), he’d become so ingrained in reality that the weight of it was threatening to replace hunger’s ache in his stomach.

With their history, Salvatore knew he ought to be the one who suggested going upstairs.  How, exactly, to do this—to work up the nerve, to get the words to leave his throat, to enunciate without sounding like a wistful child—escaped him over coffee.  Conversation was still flowing between them (and when it ebbed, it ebbed naturally), but the need to say something before they ran out of excuses to be at the table hovered behind him.  

“My God,” Elliot said abruptly, shaking his head. “They are inescapable, aren’t they?”

“What?” Salvatore asked. Elliot’s tone was casual, but a bolt of panic jolted through his heart for a moment anyhow, until Elliot nodded over Sal’s shoulder.

“The band.” Sal turned in his chair; the music was light, clearly meant to blend in beneath the din of conversation, but there was a lounge pianist a safe distance away. Elliot shook his head again, but his tone was fond, if exasperated.

“I understand the radio, of course, but you’d think a place like the Roosevelt might be immune to so-called ‘Beatlemania’.”

Salvatore tried to hide his smile behind his hand. “You listen to the Beatles?” he asked with faux-innocence.

“Now,” Elliot said sternly (his own lips twitching). “Let’s not start with that. You’ll remember I sell a product that depends on the interest of teenage girls?” 

“M- _ hm _ .”

“It’s right in those reports we discussed.”

“Of course. And, naturally, that qualifies you to recognize a song halfway across the room, on a piano, over the general commotion of a crowded nook.”

“I  _ might _ ,” Elliot admitted, “Have a niece. Who has a fondness for playing records all evening until I finally threaten to stop bringing her makeup samples.”

Sal chuckled. “You know, I’ve managed to escape it so far? I hear about them every time I set foot out the door, but haven’t heard any of their tunes.”

“A lucky man. Well, actually, they’re not too bad. The first hundred times.” He gestured towards the piano again. “This one’s alright. And they’ve slowed it down, here, so that makes for a nice change.”

Salvatore paused to listen. A moment later, he chuckled. “Elliot.”

“What?”

“That’s not The Beatles.”

Elliot looked at him very seriously. “The record has an extra groove worn into it, Salvatore. We had to buy her another copy.” He pointed in emphasis. “I know those little hooligans when I hear them.”

Sal stifled another laugh. “Alright,” he said soothingly. “You said its usually faster?”

“Yes. With a guitar, or something like that.”

“Well, I’ve always heard it this way, and it’s from  _ The Music Man. _ ” Sal smiled. “Those hooligans have good taste.”

“Oh. Well.” Elliot’s face grew pink around the edges. “That makes more sense then, I suppose.” 

“It does,” Sal agreed, kindly. There was no point in asking if Elliot knew what it was. Wistfully, Sal contemplated whether he’d ever meet anyone who was drawn to musicals the way he was. Elliot’s ignorance was disappointing, but it was a commonplace disappointment, so it didn’t faze him much. “You said this one didn’t bother you too badly?”

“No,” Elliot said, warmly. “This one doesn’t come on the radio as often, and it seems more difficult for the young girls to scream to-- at least in Katie’s case.” He smiled. “What’s the show about?”

Sal couldn’t tell if he was genuinely interested, or if Elliot was trying to be more gracious after having potentially insulted something Salvatore liked. The latter, Sal realized with surprise, might actually be more flattering.  “Oh, I don’t know.  It’s a bit silly.”

“Go on.” Elliot took a sip of his coffee. “Can’t be any more ridiculous than a grown man getting so ornery about a boy band.”

“Actually,” Sal said, trying not to laugh, “It’s about a traveling salesman, who deals in boy’s bands.”

“Oh, now you’re just putting me on.”

“No, really!”

“And how does that work?”

Sal considered. “You know,” he said, “I really couldn’t tell you.” And he let the laugh escape.

Elliot leaned back in his chair, an eyebrow raised and a smirk on his face. “Really?”

“I never grasped the plot much,” Sal said in earnest, “And it’s been a few years since I’ve seen it. This part, though,” He pointed back towards the piano. “This is when the mousy ingenue tells the traveling salesman why she decided to meet him at the local kissing spot.” 

The smirk on Elliot’s face had descended into a soft smile. “And why was that?”

There was something about the natural inflection of Elliot’s voice that emphasized the end of every sentence; regardless of tone, it seemed to punctuate every statement with warmth. Suddenly, it was completely clear how he could ask him. It was like a path had opened right in front of him.

Sal took a deep breath. “I think she met him,” he said, “Because…she’d never met a man alone before. She’s been terribly lonely-- and hopeful. She knows he can’t stay, because... a traveling salesman can never stay.  But she decides that-- that it doesn’t matter, because he’s given her something. Some…glimpse of possibility.  She knows what she can do, now--that she can want something, and have it, and be wanted in return. And she can carry that with her, even after he’s gone. 

“Will you show me that copy you mentioned, upstairs?”

Hearts beat slower than expressions change. Regardless, Sal felt his heart rail against his chest half a hundred times before Elliot reacted. He couldn’t put words to the emotion that first flashed across Elliot’s face. For a moment, Sal feared that he’d dared too much, was too honest, too dramatic. But then whatever Elliot’s expression had been—shock, recognition, validation—melted into what was unmistakably…fondness.

“Yes,” Elliot said.

And then they were getting up, and moving towards the elevator together. Like it was simple.

The wait for the elevator wasn’t long, although it did seem to take place in a suspended reality. Neither of them spoke, which should have been odd, but it didn’t  _ feel _ odd, and so it wasn’t. It was almost like the feeling of being too drunk to be concerned, though Sal had sobered considerably over the course of dinner. His heart was still pounding. He tried to make himself feel more present, but that ended with catching sight of his refection in the sheen of the elevator doors. Naturally, his face had never looked more bloated, his neck seeming to balloon over his collar, his nose looked huge. There was nothing sexy about it, and even the  _ word _ sexy seemed embarrassing when applied to him. It always seemed like there was some sort of bravado involved for other people—like lust somehow provoked confidence.  _ Lust  _ was another word that seemed bereft of dignity. It was a cringeworthy, animalistic loss of control. Winning over someone because that’s what you’re supposed to do—it was easy to be suave, then. It was even fun, the flirting, the affirmation, until you had to figure out a way to cast the fish back into the sea.  But actually  _ wanting  _ someone? God—that wasn’t fun. It was desperate, and pathetic, and he was shaking. Shaking! Like he was a washing machine, of all things. 

The elevator doors opened. They both stepped inside. Sal caught a glimpse of Elliot’s elbow, his hip, but couldn’t make himself glance anywhere near his face. A moment after the elevator doors closed, Sal realized he was closest to the buttons, and that he couldn’t remember what floor they were going to. Before he could draw enough breath to ask, Elliot leaned across him and hit  _ 12\.  _ When Elliot’s upper arm grazed Sal’s chest, Sal learned there was a difference in struggling to breathe, and forgetting to. 

_ We groaned down.  _ The phrase popped back into his head, dormant since college, where endless nights were spent frantically re-rereading a certain section of  _ The Great Gatsby _ under the covers as though afraid it might disappear.  Thank God elevators didn’t require operators anymore, or he might have disappeared himself out of mortification. They weren’t groaning down, they were rising up (wouldn’t Cole Porter make a naughty rhyme out of  _ that _ ), and this wasn’t a book. There were real consequences to all of this, even if it didn’t feel real. His chest felt tight. 

The elevator doors opened. Elliot caught Sal’s eye as they turned the corner, but Sal glanced down quickly. He could feel Elliot noticing, but he didn’t say anything. The room was only a few steps away. Elliot held the door open for him.

“You don’t have to come in, you know,” he said quietly. The volume was for the benefit of the other guests, perhaps, but the tone made Sal think he would have said it that way regardless.

“I know,” Salvatore said, surprised by how incredulous his own voice sounded. He walked inside.

Elliot was right behind him, though he paused to put the Do Not Disturb sign out.  Salvatore looked away again quickly, taking in the surroundings. The room was largely nondescript, standard for its caliber of luxury, and pristine in a hollow sort of way: the only evidence it was even occupied was Elliot’s briefcase leaning against the side of the bed.

It also had a window, which Sal quickly crossed to.

“We’re twelve flights up,” Elliot’s pointed out from the doorway. He sounded faintly amused.

Sal’s chest tightened again. “You’d be surprised,” he mumbled, as he tugged the drape closed.

There was a pause. He heard Elliot start to walk up behind him, slowly. Like he was an rabbit he didn’t want to scare off. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Elliot asked. 

Salvatore turned around to face him, but still couldn’t quite meet his eyes.  “Do people really talk much during this sort of thing?” 

He’d almost expected Elliot to be offended, although he hadn’t wanted to be rude--  just wry enough to calm his own nerves. Instead, he found Elliot’s gaze steady. 

“We talked all through dinner,” he said, calmly. “And the nice thing about this sort of thing is, every time’s different. It doesn’t have to be one way or the other.” 

Elliot gestured toward the chair at the small desk in the corner. “Have it whatever your way is.”

After dragging a hand across his face, Sal crossed the room and indeed sank into the chair. 

“Well,” he began, “I’d like to think ‘my way’ wouldn’t involve pouring my heart out to a near stranger in a hotel after I spent all day drinking, but.” He rubbed his face again, shifting in the chair so that his feet were planted on the ground and the back of the chair was against his chest. “For one thing, I’ve been unemployed for months. My wife probably suspects what I’m doing right now, even if I didn’t intend on it myself tonight. My mother dropped dead shortly after President Kennedy. I’m admitting all this to you, which I’m sure is very alluring, and I’m…not sure what to do with any of it.” 

Elliot was nodding, his mouth set in a downturned line. Sal felt the back of his shoulder’s prick like ice, waiting for the filler words of comfort, as transparent and meaningless as a “how are you?” on the subway.

“Salvatore,” Elliot said, after a pause. “Had you ever said any of that out loud before?”

Sal blinked. “No,” he realized.

Elliot nodded again. “How do you feel now?”

Sal thought about it. His limbs were still rattling, heart pounding, short of breath, but his chest felt…lighter, somehow.

“God,” he said. “Better, I think.” And as soon as he said it, he knew it for sure. “ _ Better.”  _  Jesus. His eyes were stinging and his entire body was quivering and he couldn’t remember the last time he felt this relieved.

And then he did. Don on the plane.

Sal took a deep breath. “That doesn’t fix anything, though.”

Elliot looked down. “No,” he sighed. “It doesn’t.”

“Thank you.”

Elliot looked up. “For what?”

“I don’t think anybody’s ever listened to me before. Not really.”

Elliot smiled. “You’re welcome. You really are.”

There was a stretch of silence, where one of them might have gotten up to do…something, but Sal was still rooted to the chair (even as his throat had gone dry watching his companion), and Elliot seemed reluctant to advance if it wasn’t explicitly dictated to him.

“I really did come up here to do something, you know,” Sal insisted, when he couldn’t take the silence anymore.

“I know. You did give that lovely speech, after all.”

“I just…”

“What?”

Salvatore shook his head. “I’ve never been in my right mind when I’ve done this before—I’ve always been drunk, or angry, or—impulsive. I’ve never really given myself a chance to  _ think _ .” He shook his head again, like a dog trying to rid a flea from its ear. “And now that I can…sort of process things I just can’t--shut up enough to enough to enjoy it. I just keep thinking about….the people in the other rooms and—someone only saw two men go up.”

Elliot opened his mouth, then closed it again. After glancing around the room, he looked back at Salvatore and said. “I have…an idea.”

Sal raised an eyebrow. “Okay?”

“This is…” It probably should have been discerning, if not alarming, to see Elliot start to hesitate, but it was oddly charming to see him flustered. “I-I don’t know. Forget it.”

“Elliot.” Sal gave a choked sort of laugh. “We’re already here. You might as well.”

He smiled, wider than he had all night. “I didn’t expect you to remember my name.”

_ Oh, my God. _

“I hadn’t said it, you know. All evening.”

Sal was struggling to breathe again, although this time in a far more pleasant way. “You remembered mine,” he said, shrugging one shoulder, as if completely composed.

“Sal-va-tore. Hard to forget.”

It was physical torture to be unable to will himself out of the chair. “Nobody ever calls me that, you know. “

“Oh, I—“

“I like it,” Salvatore said. “I like ‘Sal’ just fine, but with a lot of people it doesn’t feel like a nickname, it just feels like-- they’re too busy to bother with the rest of it. They only say ‘Salvatore’ when it’s something official, or important. When you say it, it sounds like…it’s all of me.”

Elliot stared at him. “You truly have a way with words, you know,” he said, after a moment.  “If you’re half so good at art, that place wasn’t good enough for you anyhow.” 

Longing tightened Salvatore's throat. “So what was your idea?” he asked, his voice cracking a bit at the end.

“Oh,” Elliot said, suddenly looking uncomfortable “Well, I just…you know, any agency we’ve worked with, they always… try to send us back to the hotels with girls.”

Sal blinked. “You want to call some girls.” he repeated, deadpan.  “To do what.  Smoke on the balcony?”

Elliot sighed. “No,” he admitted, “But I’m afraid if I suggest what I had in mind, you’d be more incredulous than if we did.” He rubbed the side of his arm up and down. “ _ Is _ there a balcony, by the way? I didn’t have the chance to look when I first got in.”

With a snort, Salvatore said, “I didn’t check, and I’m not letting you distract me.” He smiled. “I worked with Creatives, I know how that goes.” 

“Well.” Formerly standing in the middle of the room, Elliot crossed to the bed and knelt down beside it. Intrigued, Sal stood up and walked over as Elliot retrieved his briefcase.

“Now, I’ll remind you, I wanted to drop the subject all together.” Elliot unlatched the briefcase and started rummaging through it, while Sal stood above. “And this is just a suggestion, not a—we don’t have to do this.”

His hand stopped moving. Elliot removed it from the case, and passed Sal a black, flat box, almost like what you’d carry a necklace in. It was too skinny for that, though. Sal turned it in his hand to study it—emblazoned alongside was the word “SAMPLES.”

Salvatore felt his mouth go dry. “What…” He cleared his throat. “What is it…exactly…that you’re asking me?”

Elliot looked back up at him from the floor. His expression was imploring. “I’m asking you,” he said, “What it is you’re willing to do, to get what you want. You’re already up here. You’re so close. I know you don’t want to leave here without… and I don’t want you to. For me, yes, obviously, but also for you. I don’t know you, but I care about you. Maybe that’s overstepping. But I have that ad you did for us framed in my office. I look at it, sometimes, when I need to remember I’m not alone. That I’m not the only one. So if you need to be seen with a lip print on your cheek walking to the ice machine to feel comfortable enough to do this, I’m willing to make that happen. Are you?”

It was so odd, seeing him sitting there, on his knees, in a suit, on the floor. Sal looked away from him. He opened the box. Two gold tubes lay inside a velvet lining. Inscribed respectively on the edges of the tubes were  _ Passionflower Peach  _ and  _ Snow White Red.  _ He ran a fingertip across the smooth, cold, metal, over the grooves where the words formed.

He found his voice. It was a struggle, and maybe he was still hiding, a little, but he found it. “Well,” Salvatore Romano said. “The tagline  _ is  _ ‘Mark Your Man.’”

Elliot blinked. Then his face broke out into the most wonderful smile Salvatore had ever seen. And he was laughing. And Sal was laughing, fishing around in the box, pulling out a tube, and saying, “but  _ God,  _ you have got to talk to somebody about these names.” 

Elliot was standing up, teasing: “I thought you didn’t work Creative.”

And Sal was yanking the lid off  _ Snow White Red  _ and saying “I’m an  _ artist,  _ I know  _ colors _ ,” as he tried to figure out which way the tube was supposed to twist. 

Elliot reached forward, saying softly, “I didn’t know that was an exact science.” And his hand was on Sal’s. Heavy. Warm. His fingers clasped around his, holding them still, and then his other hand moved slowly down the length of the tube to make the color rise.  “You know,” Elliot said in that same slow, heavy voice, “I’ve been selling this stuff for years, and I never thought what it’d be like to…” 

His voice drifted away. When Sal felt Elliot's hand start to move from over top of his towards the lipstick, he moved with him, as if suddenly magnetized. He guided the hand holding the lipstick against Elliot’s mouth.

The sight of Elliot’s lips parting made Sal let out a little breath involuntarily. Together, they pressed the red against Elliot’s upper lip…only for it to veer into his teeth at a slight hand tremor.

Elliot cracked up. He tried to stifle it, letting go of the tube and bringing his hand reflexively to his chin. The spread of his smile only made Sal overshoot when he tried to pull back from the tooth, so now there was a smudge in the crevice of his lip—Cupid’s bow shining red. Giggling, Salvatore scolded, “now hold still!” which only made both of them laugh harder. Even after they contained themselves, trying to apply the rest of the red resulted in a long dash up the corner of Elliot’s mouth. 

Undeterred, Elliot leaned in. It happened all at once, and yet so slowly Sal felt the warm breath upon his cheek before the lips. He ought to have pulled back, so he could his pilgrimage outside, but Elliot was so close, and so warm, and so kind. He was so tired of doing things he didn’t want to do.

He let go. He let his shoulders drop. He let himself breathe in the aftermath of the kiss, the faint scent of Elliot’s cologne lingering in the thin crevice between their bodies. He let the moment hang in the air, eyes closed, feeling Elliot standing beside him, solid and true. He savored what was about to happen, but only for the breadth of time it takes a wish to reach a birthday candle. Then he submerged himself in the moment, no longer analyzing but feeling, feeling the soft warmth of Elliot’s lips against his own. He kissed another man, of his own will, as if not another thing in this hateful world mattered. 

It was the first kiss Sal had ever had completely sober. The intoxication was simply more pronounced, and rooted to its source. And the  _ hunger.  _ God. In their first moments, Sal thought he’d never get enough of those lips, the soft pressure of them, the way they yielded beneath his own, the way they parted. The feeling of another man’s tongue against his own, both of them encircling each other as if trying to find every possible angle of comfort and pleasure. 

Leaning into a kiss, he learned, didn’t mean both people meeting in the middle. It meant his sense of balance was forgotten in the midst being pulled so strongly toward another person. Elliot wrapped his arms around Sal’s waist to keep them centered. He trailed his palms down Sal’s shoulders, before knitting his fingers at the small of Salvatore’s back. Sal thought he might die at the tenderness of the gesture. He wanted to melt into the kiss, press himself into it as hard as he could, but didn’t want to push too far and somehow ruin it. He was almost unbearably happy, and it would have been unbearably disappointing to stop.

And he was terrified it  _ would  _ stop. Elliot’s fervor wasn’t waning, but it wasn’t escalating, either.  In any other interaction he’d had, kisses were a brief preliminary to the main event. Even with Kitty, he— _ God, don’t think about Kitty right now!  _ He did kiss him harder then, to forestall any line of thought that might take. And because thinking of what it was like with her made him all the more grateful and eager for him instead. 

Elliot pressed closer in kind, and for a long while Sal’s fears were forgotten...until this continued for long enough that Sal remembered them again. But then that was forgotten when Elliot, slowly, slid his hands down the creases of Salvatore’s white shirt and came to rest on his ass. And it wasn’t until whole minutes after that, when Elliot still made no move toward Salvatore’s front zipper, that it occurred to him: Maybe having sex “all night long” wasn’t just an expression, or even just a series of repeated acts. Maybe  _ this  _ could go on for as long as people wanted, because it wasn’t just a means to an end. People actually just—the thought made him whimpered a little, in the back of his throat— _ did this,  _ for hours and hours, for however long they wanted, because it was  _ fun _ , because it  _ felt good, _ because—his breath hitched as Elliot’s kisses began to travel down his chin—because they wanted the other person to feel good. Elliot wanted him to feel good. Elliot cared about him. He’d said so. He could  _ feel it,  _ in the little bites beginning to cradle his neck.

Salvatore relaxed into the touch, and for once, stopped strategizing. He could finally breathe, and he was gasping with pleasure. 


	3. Epilogue

When Salvatore woke up, the light in the room was a dusky gray. He hadn’t planned on falling asleep, but then, he hadn’t planned on having homosexual relations in a luxury hotel that evening, so _que sera._ Elliot’s back was exposed to him, his shoulders rising and falling ever so slightly in time with his breath. Sal didn’t want to say goodbye. Maybe it was cruel, to sneak away, but perhaps it would be a lesser cruelty than prolonging the inevitable. He suspected he didn’t have much time to make a decision; the curtains were drawn, but it looked like it was almost dawn.

Quietly, he reached for the clock on the bedside table and squinted at it.

_11:47._

The blood froze in Sal’s veins.

“Elliot,” he whispered, pressing his fingers lightly in between his shoulder blades.

To his surprise, Elliot rolled over immediately, bright-eyed and bushy tailed. “Sorry, did I wake you?”

Sal blinked.

Elliot smiled at his confusion, and reached to kissed his nose. “I got up to use the restroom.”

“Um.”  Sal blinked several more times. The clock was still in his hand. He held it up. “Did you see what time it is?”

Without glancing at it, Elliot said,“Almost noon. Why?”

“When does your flight leave?”

“Trying to get rid of me?”

“No, God no, I—“

“Salvatore.” He pressed the back of his hand against Sal’s cheek. “I was joking.”

“Oh.”

“My flight doesn’t leave til Sunday night.”

“ _Oh._ ”

“I decided to take the opportunity for a long weekend in the city since I had to fly out anyway. Wait,” he said, “Do you need to be somewhere? I’m terribly sorry, I should have asked if you needed an alarm set—“

“No,” Salvatore said, heart leaping at the realization. “No, I’m unemployed, I don’t have anywhere to be on a Friday morning.”

“But…”

“What?”

Elliot hesitated. In lieu of saying anything, he reached for Sal’s left hand, stroking it gently over his wedding band.

Salvatore was so giddy with dawning comprehension that he actually giggled. “She’s out of town,” he said. “For the whole weekend.”

“What?”

Salvatore was grinning. “It’s her _birthday,_ ” he said, and surged forward to kiss him.

It was Elliot’s turn to blink in rapid succession. Then, slowly, a smile bloomed across his face. “Well,” he said at last. “Happy birthday, Mrs. Romano.”

Sal started laughing with abandon, pressing both hands over his face. “Oh, God,” he said, and lowered his hands. They were covered in red wax. “Oh, God,” he said in a different tone of voice. “Jesus. I must look a fright.”

“You look wonderful,” Elliot said, wrapping his arms around Salvatore and pulling him closer.

“That is a bald-faced lie,” Salvatore murmured. “But you say it very well.”

“I will admit,” Elliot said mildly, “That I might have used the restroom just to get the smudges off of me. You can still go get ice, but the pillows will probably make your case for you.”

“If that was a pun,” Salvatore said, comfortably drowsy, “I’m leaving.”

“Don’t you dare,” Elliot breathed in his ear.

A shiver ran down Sal’s spine. “Okay,” he said.

Elliot kissed his ear. He did a few other lovely things to his ear. Salvatore contemplated purring, and then realized his soft panting amounted to the same thing.

“Are you hungry?” Elliot asked sometime later. Red wax was now smeared back over the fine, blonde-brown hairs on his chest.

As if on cue, Salvatore’s stomach gurgled.

Elliot chuckled. “Why don’t you take a shower,” he suggested, though there was also red streaked across the back of his neck, and pressed into his hips. “By the time you’re done, room service will have arrived. Unless you’d rather go down to breakfast?”

“It’s lunch, and I cannot imagine the state my suit is in.”

“Your suit is nothing compared to my sample, I’m sure.” He gestured vaguely toward the other side of the room. Sal couldn’t see the tube, but he couldn’t remember setting it down the night before, much less capping it. Probably it was a mess on the floor somewhere.

Salvatore twined his hand through a patch of Elliot's chest hair, smudging the skin beneath to an artificial pink. “There are worse states to be in, I’m sure.”

“Mmm.” Elliot put his hand atop Sal’s. “Well. How about the St. James? Does that sound like a worse state to be in?”

Sal raised his head.

“Sorry, I’m not as good at wordplay as I’d like to be. What I meant was-- McCann provided us tickets to _Hello Dolly!_ , supposed to be very good. And I’ve got an extra ticket, of course.”

When Sal continued to stared at him, Elliot added quickly, “Obviously the St. James isn’t a _state_ , I suppose I just haven’t had my coffee yet-- that’s the name of the theater. The St. James.”

 _The theater_.  Sal knew he ought to stop gaping, but he couldn't help it. He hadn’t seen a show in months before he’d been dismissed. Now it’d be coming up on a year before he’d seen anything on Broadway. He hadn’t even seen a _movie_ in six months.

“If you’re really worried about your clothes, I’m sure we can pick up a spare set,” Elliot said, worry creeping into his voice.

Salvatore buried his face into Elliot’s chest. “God,” he said, turning his cheek. “I just.” He sat up, and cupped Elliot’s face. “I can’t believe you’re really here.”

Elliot didn’t say anything, just gazed back at him with eyes half-lidded and tender. Sal caressed his face, slowly, as if tracing a map, until his fingers threaded through Elliot’s hair.

Closing his eyes, Sal leaned his forehead against Elliot’s. He whispered, “I keep feeling like I’m going to wake up.”

The words were met with warmth against his lips, long and deep and loving.

“There now, Sleeping Beauty,” Elliot said.

Sal opened his eyes.

“We’re going to have coffee, downstairs or up here,” Elliot gently continued. “We’re going to get dressed, or stay in bed all day. We’re going to shower, together or separately. Maybe take a bath. Go to the show, not go to the show. But whatever happens, make no mistake: you’re just beginning.”

And he kissed him again, to prove it.


End file.
